


Small Miracles

by Verlaine



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:17:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verlaine/pseuds/Verlaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two young detectives, a nasty crime, a new snitch and duty over Christmas. Sometimes good things start small.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Diane C. for the Loveofmeandthee list Secret Santa 2011

Christmas Eve. Christmas Day. Boxing Day.

Hutch looked at the duty roster and sighed. Newly promoted to detective, only three months out of uniform, he was the logical choice for the holiday overnight shifts. It wasn't even as if he had a lot of investment in Christmas these days. Somewhere in the last few years, while he'd been too busy chasing crooks to pay attention, Christmas in California had turned into a giant orgy of consumerism celebrated at the temple of the shopping mall and the discount plaza. Without Minnesota snow and the exuberant crowd of Jorgensen relatives who had always filled his parents' house with food and carols, Christmas was really just another working day.

But still. Three straight nights on duty over the holidays. 

He sighed again, remembering his first Christmas in uniform. He'd spent the holidays on patrol then too, still naïve enough to be a little shocked to be busting hookers and drunks on Christmas Day. As if the losers at the bottom of the barrel should have had the good manners to hide their neediness and despair from the world, so the upstanding citizens could keep believing in Santa Claus.

Look on the bright side, he told himself. Three days when he could sleep without wondering if he shouldn't have tried asking for time off to visit his family after all. Three nights when he'd be too busy to remember what Christmas with Vanessa had been like. A little chill down his spine made him push _that_ thought away so fast it barely had time to register.

"Hey, Hutch." A warm hand landed on the back of his neck and squeezed for a moment.

Hutch could never figure out how Starsky knew when he needed a neck-squeeze or an arm-pat. Hell, nobody in his family had ever known. But Starsky had picked up on it sometime during their first month at the academy.

"What's up, buddy?"

Hutch gestured at the paper tacked to the bulletin board, and heard Starsky's sympathetic groan.

"All three days? Man, that's gotta be a mistake."

"No, Starsk, it's not. Look, I'm the new guy, the rookie on the squad, right? Stands to reason I get the holiday detail. And it's not like I've got a wife and kids, or family coming to town." 

Starsky snapped his fingers. "I'll switch one with you, how 'bout that?"

Hutch pointed at the roster again. "You've only just got seniority on me, so you're not much better off. You've got Christmas Eve and Boxing Day. So how will _you_ having all three shifts on be any better than _me_ having them? No point in both of us pulling shit duty." He patted Starsky's stomach gently. "Besides, I wouldn't want to keep you from your present foraging and turkey gobbling."

"The way Aunt Rose cooks, it'll be food foraging and antacid gobbling," Starsky grumbled. "Hey, you still working on the Harrison pawnshop thing?"

"For all the good it's doing." Hutch rubbed his eyes. " Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything and nobody wants to talk to a cop anyway."

Starsky nodded reluctantly, eyes darkening. "Happens a lot down here."

"What I don't get is, Mrs. Harrison's a nice lady. Even if they think _I'm_ shit, because I'm a cop and I'm white, why don't they want to help _her_?"

"Because in that part of town, being a cop is being the bad guy," an acerbic voice behind them snapped. "That fancy college education of yours didn't teach you much about the street, did it?"

"Simonetti." Hutch turned slowly to face the precinct's senior lieutenant. "My college education at least taught me not to generalize about people," he added, in as even a voice as he could manage. 

He had to bite his lip to hide a grin as Simonetti flushed. Beside him, Starsky smirked.

"Why are you still working the Harrison case anyway?" Simonetti demanded. "There haven't been any more leads." 

"Because Captain Ferguson hasn't taken me off it yet. And until he does, I'm sticking with it."

"We're on our way to check something out right now," Starsky added.

"Is that what you're calling it these days?" Simonetti sneered.

Hutch's grip on Starsky's shoulder was enough to keep him still, though Simonetti must have seen something in his face that made him back up a step. 

"We call it doing police work. You might want to give it a try some day. C'mon, Hutch. Let's go stuff some turkey."

"Excuse us, lieutenant, we're hitting the street," Hutch said with such exaggerated politeness, Simonetti didn't really have a choice except to step back. The look on his face said that he could tell he was being played, he just couldn't think of anything to do about it.

Starsky gave Hutch a gentle push in the direction of the door, and made a point of walking shoulder to shoulder, close enough that Hutch had to squeeze sideways past one of the desk chairs. Hutch didn't mind; Simonetti's flummoxed expression was worth a little inconvenience.

Out in the hall, Starsky elbowed him in the ribs. "I should've—"

"No," Hutch said firmly. "You're doing nothing."

"But—"

"Look. We're still the new guys on the squad. Simonetti's a loo. We mix it up with him, we'll end up back in uniform. It's one thing for the brass to know we're hell on wheels on the street, but if we get a rep as troublemakers now, they'll probably split us up for good. I'm not going to lose you 'cause Simonetti's a dick."

Starsky scowled, then grinned. "You're maybe right. You've impressed Ferguson already. He doesn't like Simonetti, and the word is, Simonetti's looking for a transfer to IA." Hutch grimaced. "Yeah, just where he belongs. Ferguson won't let the door hit his ass on the way out, and we won't have to put up with him again."

They were almost at the door to the parking garage before Starsky muttered, "Still like to kick him one in the keister, though."

"Think you did better than that. Stuff some turkey, Starsk? Did you see his face?" Hutch laughed aloud, and after a moment Starsky joined in.

"Thing of beauty. C'mon, we're overdue to get a beer."

"At nine-thirty in the morning?" 

"That's what I was gonna tell you before Simonetti came along. I got the word there's a guy might know something about your Harrison robbery. He tends bar in some little dive over on Westmount. Open all day and night. I thought we could head over there and shake his tree a little."

"Might as well. Nothing else I've done seems to be any use."

 

**

 

Dive was a kind word for the place Starsky pulled up to twenty minutes later. Hutch could see several different colors of paint peeling off the weathered grayish wood that formed the upper story. The faded remains of graffiti were still visible on the alley wall, and the big front window was murky with age. The door and window frame were freshly painted, but the wood was so old it had absorbed the paint unevenly, leaving it splotched in various bilious shades. A small neon sign sputtered over the door, advertising the place as "Solid Gold".

The interior held no surprises either. A stained and scarred bar took up one whole wall of the long narrow room, facing a collection of mismatched tables and chairs. In back, a battered jukebox, missing nearly half its lights, squatted next to a postage stamp dance floor. Behind the bar, a tall skinny black man in a pale lemon denim suit and matching flat cap scrubbed glasses in a tiny sink. 

Starsky hitched one hip onto a bar stool, and grimaced at the squeaking noise.

"What'll it be, gents?" The bartender barely looked up from his washing.

"Couple of beers. And a guy named Huggy Bear."

The lean man nodded slowly and drew two glasses of beer, sliding them easily along the counter. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, and lit one, blowing a small neat smoke ring above Hutch's head. "What you want with Mr. Bear?"

"How about a little information?" Hutch took a sip of his beer and grimaced. 

"Tourist office is a couple blocks thataway," the man said with a swift dismissive flick of his cigarette.

"Look," Starsky leaned forward, elbows on the bar, eyes hard. "Word is, this Huggy guy might know something about the pawnshop robbery over on Montrose three days ago. We're gonna talk to him about it, see? And if you don't want us to talk to him, we might start to wonder why."

"Might even have to shut this place down to find out," Hutch added.

"Shut it down?" There was a quickly concealed flash of panic on the bartender's face. "Why?"

"False advertising, for a start." Hutch tipped the glass and let his beer pour out onto the floor. "Passing this goat-piss off as beer? Tsk, tsk. The health department might be persuaded to take a look in back, not to mention—"

"Okay, okay!" The bartender raised his hands. "Be cool, man. No need to get higher authorities involved. I'm Huggy Bear. You two lookin' for the downlow on who ripped off Joletta Harrison?"

"It's my case. I'm Detective Hutchinson. My associate, Detective Starsky." Starsky raised his beer glass in salute.

"Well, dee-tec-tive, you got any clues so far?"

Hutch shook his head. "Right now, we've got nothing much to go on. Mrs. Harrison says she'll recognize the creep if she sees him again, but her description's pretty vague. And the way the place got wrecked, there's not much we could find in the way of evidence."

Huggy nodded jerkily. "Damn shame. Joletta was married to my second cousin. Hard-working lady, trying to raise two boys on her own. Not right what happened."

"So help us." Hutch leaned in. "This guy got awfully rough with a lady who didn't put up a fight. Who knows what he might do next time?"

"What do a pair of uptown boys like you care?"

"From what Hutch tells me, nobody else seems to," Starsky growled. "All he's gettin' is stonewalled from one end to the other."

"So do what you usually do. Roust some local boy and pin it on him. File the papers and everybody's happy."

"I can't say there's not some cops who work that way. But I patrol this district now and I do things by the book."

Starsky snorted softly. 

"Pretty tune." Huggy lifted his arms, made a motion that it took Hutch a moment to recognize as playing an invisible violin. "You learn that shit in po-lice jive class?"

"I thought you said you were related to her?" 

Huggy nodded. 

"So what's with the attitude, huh? I sat with Mrs. Harrison in the hospital and heard her tell me about needing that money for her kids and how worried she was about what would happen to them if she couldn't get back to work. She's a decent lady who deserves better than that. And, as far as I can tell, I'm the only person who thinks somebody oughtta do something about it!" 

Hutch only became aware how loud his voice had become when the bartender backed away, hands in the air.

"Hey, hey, chill out, Captain Marvel. Next you'll be tellin' me all about truth, justice and the American Way." Huggy gave them an assessing glance. "I might be able to recall more clearly in the company of my friend President Jackson."

Starsky pushed his glass away in disgust. "That's it, Hutch. Game over. Think we need to make a call to the health department."

"Now, hold on, hold on." Huggy took a final drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in a shot glass. "You should to give a man a chance to collect his thinkin' so to speak." He blew out a deep breath. "The word around is, a dude name of Pedro Armindariz came into a wad of green the day after Joletta's place got trashed."

"Armindariz." Hutch looked over at Starsky, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "He hang with the T-Bones? Or the Sixteen Deuces?"

Huggy shook his head. "Naw, he's too small time for that. T-Bones might use him sometimes for shit work, but he ain't a member. Man likes his hooch and his cooch too much to trust, even if he is a brother."

"You got any ideas where we could find him?"

"Well, Pedro's got an older brother, name of Raul. And Raul has been known to work for Joaquin Martinez." Huggy fumbled out another cigarette. "Best I can do."

"All right?" Starsky raised an eyebrow in Hutch's direction.

"All right." Hutch slid a ten-dollar bill across the bar, ignoring Starsky's eye roll. "See you round, Huggy."

"Only if I don't see you comin'."

 

**

 

By late evening of Christmas Day, the weather had turned muggy. The moisture in the air made everything a little sparkly, turning the brightly colored lights from store windows into a spill of jewels on damp sidewalks, and the headlights of oncoming cars into a soft rainbow haze.

Hutch had spent the evening pretty much as he'd expected to. He'd sent some working girls on their way, knowing they'd be back on the street as soon as his car turned the corner. He'd caught Coley in the act of lifting the wallet of a lost tourist, broken up two bar fights and intervened in three domestic disturbances, all of which had involved a dispute over Christmas family visits. By the time he'd manhandled the third set of screaming in-laws into a patrol car, he'd felt a distinct amount of sympathy for Ebenezer Scrooge.

"Boiled with their own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through their hearts," he muttered as the patrol car pulled away, the uniforms looking as disgruntled as he felt.

Still, he couldn't maintain his bad mood. Despite Starsky's skepticism, Pedro Armindariz had been exactly where Huggy Bear had hinted he'd be. Taking him in had been the high point of the week, despite getting knocked down half a flight of stairs by Pedro's older brother Raul.

Starsky had flattened Raul with one punch.

Hutch winced as he rotated his shoulder, but found himself grinning through the pain. So far, law enforcement two, Armindariz brothers zero. 

Not that it brought back any of Mrs. Harrison's money. The Armindariz brothers' dingy apartment hadn't yielded more than a half baggy of weed and a mountain of empty bottles. It didn't speed up her healing or make getting around with taped ribs any easier. But the fierce light of battle in her eyes when Hutch told her about the arrest had been reassuring. The ID line-up was scheduled for the next day and Mrs. Harrison was going to be there, as she put it, if they had to get Santa's sleigh and reindeer to drive her to the station.

The radio crackled briefly. 

"Fourteen thirty-one, come in."

Hutch picked up the radio. "Fourteen thirty-one here, go ahead."

"Fourteen nineteen requests a meet at Solid Gold on Westmount Avenue."

Hutch looked from the radio to the road and back. Fourteen nineteen was Starsky's call sign. As far as he knew, Starsky was spending the day with his aunt and uncle, manfully enduring a lovingly but ineptly prepared Christmas dinner.

"Say again, dispatch? Fourteen nineteen isn't on duty tonight." 

"Not my problem, fourteen thirty-one. That's the message."

Hutch blew out a breath in exasperation. Radio protocol meant he couldn't ask any of the questions tumbling through his mind. "Roger that, dispatch. Any further information?"

"That's a negative, fourteen thirty-one. Dispatch out."

Hutch pulled his car into a U-turn and gunned the engine.

Solid Gold looked a little better with the darkness concealing the worst of the wear and tear, the neon sign's red and blue flickering providing the only color. Starsky's car was parked across the road, with Starsky leaning against the hood, his eyes on the door. He raised a hand in greeting as Hutch pulled up behind him.

"You know what's going on?" Hutch joined Starsky in casing the street. Nothing raised any alarm bells. The bar looked closed, dark except for the sign, but there were no cars on the street except for theirs, and no indication of anyone lurking in the alley or nearby doorways.

"Nope." Starsky turned slightly to scan the alley. "Message said to come by when we got a break."

"If his coffee's as bad as the beer, I don't think we'll be staying."

"Well, we won't figure it out here." Starsky bowed, swirling one arm in front of him. "After you, my good man."

The two of them headed across the street, Hutch sparing a moment to adjust his gun. Huggy Bear hadn't given him the vibe of a guy who'd lure them into an ambush, but he also hadn't been too fond of the cops. Snitches could be unpredictable, once busts actually went down.

The door was unlocked. Starsky gave him one look, pulled his gun and glided across to flatten himself against the wall. Even as he drew his own weapon, Hutch was conscious of how well they worked together, how much easier things were with Starsky at his side. 

Next year we're going to make it into one of those zebra units over at Metro and be full-time partners, he vowed. 

Cautiously, Hutch pushed the door open. They paused on the threshold for a long moment, listening and waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior. The bar was in darkness, except for one light just by the door that led into the back area. The table under the light was covered in a checkered blue and white tablecloth,

Starsky and Hutch glanced at each other again, and slowly moved down the length of the barroom. As they got closer to the spot-lighted table, Hutch saw it held two place settings and napkins, along with a fat half-burned candle set in a sloppy wreath made of fake greenery and slightly withered tangerines.

The door from the kitchen area suddenly banged open, and Huggy Bear backed into the main room, struggling with a huge serving tray. He glanced over his shoulder and did a double-take that nearly made him drop the tray.

"Don't shoot!" he squawked. "The bear is a lover, not a fighter!"

With a final look around the empty room, Hutch holstered his gun.

"What's going on here, Huggy?" Starsky demanded.

"Christmas dinner for the white knights of Montrose Avenue, courtesy of Chef Bear. Sit down, sit down."

With a flourish, he set the tray on the table and unloaded two plates.

No, Hutch thought in disbelief, not plates. Platters. There was turkey—a whole drumstick and several thick slices of white meat as well on each plate. A mound of cornbread stuffing, and another of mashed potatoes, flanked by green beans and corn and glazed carrots. Between the plates Huggy deposited a cream pitcher filled with steaming gravy, and a sugar bowl of cranberry sauce.

Hutch felt his stomach rumble, and looked over at Starsky, who was staring at the food wide-eyed and licking his lips.

"For us?"

Huggy brushed restlessly at the tablecloth. "Sit down and eat up," he said. "Don't let that gravy get cold."

The heady aroma of stuffing and gravy was impossible to resist. They pulled their chairs up to the table. Starsky tucked his napkin into his collar and leaned over to sniff at the plate. An expression of bliss dawned on his face.

"Oh, man," he said reverently. "If only Aunt Rose could cook like this."

Hutch had to agree. "Haven't seen a spread like this since the last time we had Christmas at Grandma Jorgensen's."

Huggy had disappeared into the kitchen, and now emerged with three glasses of red wine. He set two down ceremoniously in front of their places, keeping the third for himself. Twirling the chair across from them around, he straddled it and took an appreciative gulp of wine.

"Huggy." Starsky gestured at the spread in front of them with his fork. "What's going on?"

"I talked with cousin Joletta at the hospital. She told me what you did for her."

Hutch felt himself blush. "Just doing our job," he muttered. 

Beside him, Starsky nodded. "Ain't like we got her money back," he said. " Armindariz spent almost all of it on booze and hookers already."

"Yeah. Feels like we haven't earned—" Hutch gestured at the heaped plate in front of him.

Huggy took another deep swig from his glass. "Anybody ever tell you two about which end of the gift horse not to look at?" he asked in some exasperation. "Look, next time somebody thinks about knockin' over Joletta's place, they might remember she's got a couple 'a fuzzy friends. Maybe when their homies try to talk those kids of hers into pissin' their lives away, those boys will remember not every cop's the enemy. 

"You done good for a pair of white boys." He gestured at their plates. "Now dig in. There's apple pie for dessert."

Starsky picked up his fork again. "You know, Hutch, this is why I wanted to be a cop."

"Free turkey dinners?" 

"Funny guy. No, you know." He doused his plate liberally with gravy.

"I know." Hutch helped himself to the cranberries. 

"Couldn't have done it without you, Huggy. You came through when it counted." Starsky toasted Huggy with the gravy pitcher before passing it over to Hutch, who did likewise.

"Well, let's not let it get around. Bad for my re-pu-ta-tion if folks know I'm hangin' with the heat."

"If that's the way you want it," Hutch said around a mouthful of potatoes.

"I surely do. Although—" Huggy broke off to rub his chin. "Once you have finished this fine repast, we might have a little talk over brandy about a certain Rudy Bates."

Starsky paused, fork in the air. "Rudy Bates the counterfeiter?"

"One and the same." Huggy's smile widened to a shark's grin. "Interested?"

"Very interested," Hutch said. Starsky nodded energetically.

Huggy lifted his glass. "A toast. To three very heavy dudes. And a profitable new year to all."


End file.
